


Never let me go

by Arial



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fallen Angel Lucifer, Fallen Angel Michael, M/M, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-10 07:16:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5576227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arial/pseuds/Arial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The human race is going through a new apocalypse, and the earthly life of Michael and Lucifer has turned into a never-ending fight for survival. The dead are hungry, violence is now law. To stay together, to protect the only thing they can't bear to lose, any sacrifice is tolerable, any compromise is acceptable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OrchideaFantasma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrchideaFantasma/gifts).



_“Feet don’t fail me now_  
_take me to the finish line._  
_Walking through the city streets_  
_is it by mistake or design?_  
_Can you make it feel like home,_  
_if I tell you you’re mine.”_  
_(Born to die – Lana Del Rey)_

 

 

Michael leaned against the wall, and the weight of the backpack dragged him to the dirty floor. He closed his eyes. A blissful shudder shook his aching limbs; he knew he was drifting off. He was exhausted, they both were–two days on the streets had taken their toll–but he couldn’t let himself go. Not before making sure Lucifer was okay.

“How is the wound doing?”

His eyes were still closed, but he thought he heard a smile in his brother’s voice. “Wound is too strong a word,” Lucifer said. “It was just a scratch, Michael.”

“Let me be the one to judge.”

Lucifer was pale; his blue irises were darkened by weariness, his wan lips curved in a cocky smile. “Do you not trust my word?” he asked feigning nonchalance. “Wars have started for less.”

“Always looking for a _casus_ _belli_ , brother?” Michael replied touching Lucifer’s arm. “It seems life has taught you nothing.”

He gently raised his brother’s sleeve, uncovering a deep cut from wrist to elbow. The skin was stretched and red, but cool. There didn’t seem to be any sign of infection.

Michael sighed in relief.

“We must wrap it,” he said. “We cannot risk for it to get infected.”

He shrugged off the backpack and started to empty it. Scissors popped up right away, just like antibiotic cream. Gauzes were missing.

Michael ran a hand through his hair. It was dirty and ruffled, already too long.

“Damn it,” he breathed tiredly.

Lucifer’s fingers closed on his brother’s knee. “Gauzes are in my backpack, Michael.”

 _It’s all so wrong_ , the eldest thought. _I’m supposed to be the one to worry about him, not vice versa._

He slowly shook his head and smiled. “It is time I get rid of this awful mop of hair, isn’t it?”

“Or you could wash it,” Lucifer retorted. “You know, to try something new.”

Michael’s smile widened: his brother was so easy to manipulate.

He leaned forward, challenge in his eyes. “You are right,” he conceded. “I should really let my hair grow, make it easier for the dead to get me and eat me alive. How could I not think about it until now?” When Lucifer tried to reply, Michael drew him in a slow, exhausted kiss. “Or maybe I could try your dry shampoo, dear brother.”

“Better than the cans of peaches in syrup you carry around.”

Michael kissed him again. “They have vitamins.”

“They’re way past their expiration date!”

“Just like your shampoo,” he replied, amused. “You might lose your hair.”

Lucifer gave him a shove. “And your fucking peaches might kill you.”

“Truce?” Michael asked, offering his hand. A soft smile still curved his lips, but his voice was serious: “Let me take care of this wound. I don’t wanna lose you to something like this.”

_I can’t lose you._

The younger one shook his head. “I can handle it, but only if you eat something. You have not had anything since we left Lawrence.”

Michael wasn’t hungry: he was too tired to feel anything other than the cold in his bones and silence in his heart. He just wanted to lie down and sleep forever. But he couldn’t.

With a smirk, he showed his brother the canned peaches; still, before opening it, he felt unsure: what if they were indeed bad?

The idea of dying of food poisoning during a zombie apocalypse had never crossed his mind. When he first came to Earth as a human, he had eaten weird stuff; but he knew that, even if it made him sick, there wouldn’t be corpses knocking at the bathroom’s door. Now, this certainty had vanished, along with the rest of the planet.

The lid was flat and made a reassuring _click_ when he opened it; the smell was good. Michael picked a piece of fruit and brought it to his lips, only for Lucifer to tear it off his fingers and eat it.

Michael watched him, confused. “I thought you believed them to be lethal.”

The other chewed angrily. “I still do. That is why I am not going to let you eat them alone.”

“You are an idiot,” Michael muttered, his lips arching slightly.

He was still smiling when, a few minutes later, he fell asleep. He knew Lucifer would keep vigil over them both, at least for that night.

 

 

*  *  *

 

 

The sunset painted the grocery store’s windows in red. From the parking lot you could see the dark and seemingly empty aisles.

A freezing bust of wind ruffled his hair and slipped under his clothes; Michael shivered.

“Let’s hurry up,” he said. “It’s going to get dark soon.”

Lucifer freed his forehead of a long strand of black hair and smiled. “Little less grouchy, brother,” he poked. “I wasn’t the one who lost the backpacks.”

“God,” Michael replied tiredly. “I should have let them eat you.”

The younger man passed an arm around his brother’s shoulders and guided him through the lot. “Do you really want to get Dad involved in all of this?”

Michael gave him a shove. “Shut up.”

He was smiling too.

They stopped in front of the automatic doors; they were blocked, electricity having stopped working who knew when. Michael slipped his knife between them for leverage, allowing the other to pull them apart.

They had a blade and a gun each, but no magazine.

Michael put his hand on his brother’s arm– _be careful_. Lucifer nodded, one corner of his mouth lifting in a wild smile– _you too_.

They gave their eyes time to get used to the darkness inside: above them there were the ruins of a huge skylight; below them sharp glass shards.

Approaching the closest check-out counter Lucifer sent the cash register on the floor, breaking it. They waited in silence, a hand on their guns, the other on the hilts of their knives.

Nobody showed up.

“Here,” Michael said, moving to the closest shelves. “Flashlights, backpacks, water, medicines, food. I want us out of here in ten minutes.”

He slipped the gun into his jeans and moved the knife to his right hand: he had maintained some dexterity in both hands, but his left one was less strong and would never smash a skull at first try, no matter how rotten it was.

He checked the straps of the big backpack, then handed it to his brother. Their fingers brushed; Lucifer’s were icy. They needed to find a shelter as soon as possible; they couldn’t spend another night outside.

They started filling the backpacks, glass crackling under their soles. Michael bit his lips: that noise was driving him insane. He forced himself to keep his head down, because he knew that, even in the dim light, the glass would be red. Just like the ice in the Cage.

He shook his head, forcing himself to calm down. With a forced smile, he reached to the Hershey’s S’mores packet.

“Your favorite,” he whispered, turning towards his brother.

Lucifer’s expression managed somehow to melt the cold inside him. Michael felt the corner of his mouth lift in what didn’t look like a grimace anymore. Then he felt a rustle behind him, glass crushed under heavy, insensitive steps. He saw Lucifer’s face lose all its color. He couldn’t even turn around; his brother pushed him aside.

Michael slipped on the glass shards. He felt the pain radiate from his ankle– _it’s not a bite, it’s not a bite_. He hit a shelf and it crumbled under his weight. In the quiet of the store it echoed like a rumble.

_Fuck fuck fuck!_

He got up on trembling legs, all his body weight on his left ankle. Lucifer was on the floor breathing heavily– _still breathing, still breathing_. The zombie above him had a knife stuck in its head. Michael dragged himself to them. The creature had come out of what looked like a closet, the only part of that fucking room that wasn’t covered in shards.

“Are you okay?” he asked breathlessly.

Lucifer shoved the corpse away from himself. “I have been better.”

He reached his hand out and Michael pulled him up. Lucifer’s left arm was scattered with cuts, some of which were pretty deep.

God, he was so mad. At himself, at that idiot.

He squeezed his brother in a hug, because it was better than punching him. “You shouldn’t have done it,” Michael muttered against his skin. “I would have handled it.”

Lucifer nodded, clearly too tired to argue.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “Can you walk?”

Michael lowered his eyes, a forced smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “Not for long,” he admitted, bending down to pick up the sweets packet that had fallen. “But know this: if you ever decide to leave me behind, these will stay with me.”

Lucifer grabbed at the backpack, but Michael stopped him. “It’s half empty.”

“Just focus on putting one foot in front of the other,” Lucifer replied, taking it off his brother’s shoulders. “I don’t want them to surprise us again in the dark.”

Michael did as he was told, swallowing his pride and the sharp retort on his tongue, the rage at feeling a burden.

Night had fallen.

The wind brushed against his sweat-covered skin, while increasingly sharp shadows engulfed that portion of Kansas: the treetops melted in the black sky, farms appeared indistinct. And Michael kept putting one foot in front of the other, just as he had been ordered to.

Following orders was easy, it had always been. When he focused on the mission he had been given, pain moved to the background. Fatigue was forgotten. Fears vanished.

Lucifer touched his neck with cold, wet fingers.

“Come on,” he said. “The town isn’t far.”

Michael nodded, without even lifting his eyes from the endless asphalt stretching below him. His legs trembled, he felt sick. But if he kept focusing on his mission, he wouldn’t pass out.

Until the first house, until a shelter.

_Please, Father. I can’t give up now, I can’t leave him._

He stumbled. Lucifer’s arms sprang into action, but Michael was heavy–like a rock, like a fucking corpse. They both fell.

The eldest felt fire devour his leg, frustrated tears burnt his eyes. He was collapsing, he _had_ collapsed. And dragged Lucifer down with him.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out.

Lucifer laughed. “We haven’t even been down for long this time.” He got up and offered a hand to his brother. “Ten minutes, Michael. That is all I’m asking.”

Michael pulled himself up and held the other’s gaze with an unsure smile. Lucifer looked so pale under the moon’s soft light. His sharp cheekbones cut through a face carved by hunger, the dark circles under his eyes looked like ink on thin paper. They needed to find a shelter, for both of their sakes.

“We could race,” Michael proposed, resuming their march. “But you might want to give me a little advantage.”

Lucifer passed an arm around his waist. “No way,” he retorted. “I know the story of Achilles and the tortoise.”

“It was a paradox.”

“I don’t want to take any chances.”

Michael smiled, unconsciously leaning more heavily on his brother. His eyes kept slipping closed.

He focused on the sound of their steps, on the wind caressing his flushed face. On the moans they could hear, now closer, now farther, but always miserable. Always, always hungry. Among all that, he singled out Lucifer’s breathing. It was labored, thick. Fatigued.

 _It’s just because he has to practically carry me_ , Michael told himself. _It’s nothing. He is okay._ We _are going to be okay._

Asphalt turned into slate, the plates disconnected and ruined by the years. Street lights were off, the road dark.

Lucifer stopped. The moon painted silver streaks in the hair around his temples; his eyes were turned skywards. For just a moment, Michael was reminded of the magnificent creature his brother had been. He touched his back, surprised to feel nothing but worn-out and sweat-soaked fabric.

Lucifer turned around. “That house,” he said pointing at the building some sixty feet away. “The ground floor looks barricaded. We could stay here for a few days.”

Michael nodded.

They got in from the back. The wet grass was softer than stone and Michael closed his eyes as he leaned his back against an old tree. He would sleep under the sparse bushes embellishing that suburban garden, but he doubted his brother would agree.

He was holding his knife in his right hand, its weight comforting him more than the gun ever would. He raised his head, wondering if the long thin branches would hold their weight; supposing he’d be able to climb that high. He was so tired he was startled by Lucifer’s voice.

“What?” he asked, hiding a yawn behind his hand.

Adrenalin was leaving him, and he knew that was the moment he’d be more likely to make a mistake.

“It seems we won’t need to climb,” Lucifer answered. “There’s a small window to the basement. Whoever nailed the planks to all the windows thought the zombies aren’t that good at the limbo; they left an easy way out.”

Lucifer threw the backpacks into the basement. They heard them land with a soft thud. They waited, listening for long minutes, but didn’t hear any sound from the darkness below them.

“I will go first, then I’ll help you.”

Michael nodded. He didn’t have a choice.

“Be careful,” he said. “I have no intention to come recover your remains.”

Lucifer gave him a smile, his forehead beaded with perspiration. “Is this your way of thanking me for carrying your backpack?” He touched his brother’s arm before climbing down the window. “Be careful, you ungrateful bastard.”

The younger man slid into the house. Michael could see the flashlight dart in the darkness; could hear his brother’s heavy breathing. He leaned against the wooden wall, his heart hammering in his chest.

 _Come on_ , it seemed to scream. _Hurry up, Lucifer. I can’t bear the thought of you being alone._

Lucifer turned his flashlight off and on again twice, to signal the all clear; Michael could now climb down. He sat down on the grass, feeling the moisture of the night seep through his jeans. He leaned over the edge of the window, letting gravity pull him under.

Lucifer’s fingers closed on his hips, helping him to the ground; lingering on him. Michael let himself indulge in that rare sweet moment, his forehead against his brother’s shoulder, an exhausted smile lifting his lips. Reluctantly he pulled away, raising gun and flashlight.

On the wall to the right there was a cot. The sheets were dirty, messy; an old potato chips package shone in the dim light. Michael wondered if this house was empty and, if so, since when.

Lucifer pointed at the stairs leading upstairs and then at himself; at Michael and at the cot. Michael shook his head, gesturing for him to hurry. His brother was already climbing up, the wooden planks creaking under his feet, when Michael felt metal against his back.

The barrel of a rifle.

“Lucifer,” he warned softly.

And he heard the weapon being loaded. Michael swallowed. If whoever was holding the rifle fired, he was sure they’d be able to use him as a Halloween decoration, candle in his carved chest included.

“Raise your hands above your head. Both of you.”

The voice sounded child-like, the tone stolen from some cop on TV.

 _It’s a kid_ , Michael realized. He didn’t know if it was good or a fucking catastrophe. He slowly lifted his hands, nodding calmly to his brother. Then he turned.

The one holding the rifle, hands shaking, was barely older than a boy. He was just over five feet, a mop of thick blond hair framing his thin face. He was practically drowning in his too large t-shirt.

Michael thought he would be able to disarm the kid easily, but that wasn’t what he wanted.

“I am Michael. That is my brother, Lucifer.” He nodded to the other without turning. “What is your name?”

The kid didn’t answer. Michael went on anyway. “Is this your home? Do you live here all by yourself?”

“Since I’ve killed Ben…”

“I can feel my heart breaking,” Lucifer interrupted sarcastically.

The kid’s hand trembled on the rifle, but it stayed on Michael.

_Good, kid. Don’t make him shoot you._

“Who was Ben?” Michael asked.

“My brother.”

Michael closed his eyes for a moment. He felt a weight in his stomach, his tongue was dry. “We need to spend the night here,” he said. “But this is your home, we understand that. And we are going to leave as soon as the sun rises.” He dropped his gun, reaching his hand out to the kid. “Do you like S’mores? If you let us stay, we will share with you.”

The kid lowered the rifle and took his hand. “My name is Logan.”

That was all he could say, before Lucifer shot him in the head.

They both used silenced guns, so the shot was barely more than a violent hiss. Nothing compared to the din caused by the kid’s body falling back on a bucket of rain water. The metallic rim had cut his cheek, but the wound didn’t bleed. It was clean, deep, pale.

_Like gills of a dead fish floating on water._

Michael gagged and brought a shaking hand to his lips. Christ.

“Did you get soft in your old age?”

Lucifer moved him aside. He didn’t show any mercy, just calm efficiency. He sat up the kid and pulled him onto his own shoulders, ignoring the water soaking his clothes. Only the weight of the burden made him sway, but just for a moment.

“I’m throwing him out of the window on the first floor, before his smell lures unwanted company.” He made for getting past his brother, but Michael stopped him. “I’m not asking you to help me, Michael. But get out of my way, please.”

“Take him upstairs, choose a bedroom and lay him on a bed.”

Lucifer shook his head. “I have no intention to sleep with a rotting corpse upstairs.”

“Then you are going to sleep outside, brother.” Michael’s voice was cold, impassive. A smirk uncovered his teeth. “Because I can assure you, this kid will be properly buried, with a Viking funeral if that’s what it takes.”

“Stop playing the moral high ground, you are no saint either,” Lucifer hissed. “We both know what you did, following our Father’s orders.”

Michael’s smirk got wider. Gently, he closed his fingers around his brother’s throat and brought their faces closer. “And we both know what I didn’t.”

“What a shame you didn’t have the balls to go through with it,” Lucifer replied giving him a shove.

Michael took a step back, his weight moving onto his injured ankle. The pain reverberated to his eyes and made his jaw clench. For a moment he staggered.

Lucifer grabbed at him, but Michael hit away the fingers that reached out for him. “Do not think I don’t regret it every day,” he rasped. “If I had killed you like I should have, now I would be enjoying the show from the gallery, not dragging myself through the dust with a monster like you.”

Lucifer got around him without a word. Michael purposefully kept his back to the door until the squeak of the wood and his brother’s heavy breathing gave way to a new silence. Then he bent over a backpack– _please, be the one with the aspirin_ –and dragged himself to the cot.

He kicked off his left shoe and carefully removed the right one: his ankle was twice its normal size. His hot flesh had turned a purple shade, squeezed in his tight jeans. Michael cut the leg of his jeans to the knee; he then swallowed three tablets with no water and lay on the bed.

With his eyes closed, he tried to focus on the ever-present cries of the zombies and the house creaking around him. But the clearest sound he could hear was Lucifer dragging the corpse up the stairs.

He brought a hand to his burning stomach; he had never much tolerated aspirin. He tried to turn onto his side and felt the chips bag crackling under his cheek. He threw it away with a slap. The pillow below his head smelled of cheddar and sweat. He threw it to the other side of the room too.

He wanted to scream.

He ran a hand through his hair; the aspirin was making him sweat. He got rid of his shirt and used it to wipe at his forehead and neck; he hid his face in his arms. His skin was covered with goose bumps.

Had he not sprained his ankle, would the kid still be alive? Probably. Lucifer didn’t give a fuck about humans, but he had never killed anyone with no reason. It had been his injury that had sent his brother into survival mode, Michael knew it. If their roles had been reversed, he would’ve done the same.

But that hadn’t stopped him from calling his brother a monster.

Something touched his shoulder and Michael lifted his head. It was Lucifer.

“Drink something,” he said. “You look awful.”

Michael took the bottle, but didn’t bring it to his lips. He shifted towards the wall and nodded for his brother to sit beside him. “I am sorry. I did not really mean what I said.”

He squeezed his brother’s hand and looked at his eyes. They were glossy, face pale and beaded with perspiration.

Lucifer laughed. It was hoarse, humorless.

Then he coughed; a dark sound, deafening in the quiet room. Michael’s eyes went to the window while he absent-mindedly rubbed Lucifer’s back.

“I know,” the younger man muttered, a hand against his mouth. “You are not smart enough to recognize the truth behind your words.” Michael shook his head, but his brother hushed him. “I know I am a monster, Michael. I have always been.”

The eldest closed his mouth with a hand. He didn’t want to hear that. He had chosen Lucifer, the moment Sam’s fingers had closed on his arm and dragged him into the pit. He had chosen to spare his brother’s life back when they were still on Earth; and in the Cage he had chosen to open his heart to him. And yet, it seemed they couldn’t stop hurting each other.

He was still killing Lucifer, in a slower and more perverse way. On nights like this, he wondered if a blade wouldn’t be more merciful.

Michael leaned his forehead against Lucifer’s: it was warm despite the cold air of the night. He brushed a sweated lock of hair back from it, kissed it softly. And Lucifer hid his face into his brother’s shoulder. His breath was hot, his hold desperate. Michael passed an arm around his waist.

They weren’t sitting comfortably, their balance was unstable, yet neither of them seemed willing to move.

“I shouldn’t have killed the kid, but I could not risk getting back on the streets.”

Lucifer trembled in his arms, and Michael held him tighter.

“I know why you did it,” he whispered. “I know it was me you were trying to protect. Please, let’s not speak of that anymore.”

The younger gently pushed him away. In the dim light of the basement his eyes were bright with fever, his breath was fast like that of a cat’s.

Michael felt icy fingers squeeze his heart and struggled to swallow the nameless terror he could feel inside. “I would have done the same.”

“I made a mistake,” Lucifer allowed, shaking his head slowly. “I should’ve let him live… For you. You would not be left alone, with him.” He smiled, his pale lips barely curving. “After all, you showed you can get along with kids.”

Michael lowered his eyes to his brother’s arm: the glass shards were still there, shining like the stars of those lightless nights. They had torn flesh and fabric, but the cuts were clean. Precise.

Yet, there was another wound on his wrist. It looked deeper… dirtier. His shirt was in tatters, blood stains almost black.

“But I am not alone,” Michael whispered, his tone that of a frightened child.

His heart hammered, lips and hands trembled. He hated feeling so vulnerable–his skin, they had taken his skin and now they could dig inside of him and he didn’t know, didn’t know what would come out.

He closed his eyes and held his brother close, hating him– _loving him_ –like he had never done before. And when Lucifer collapsed, Michael held him and kept on holding him.


	2. Chapter 2

_“We are young and lost, and so afraid._   
_There’s no cure for the pain, no shelter from the rain,_   
_All our prayers seem to fail._   
_In joy and sorrow my home’s in your arms,_   
_In a world so hollow, it’s breakin’ my heart._   
_In joy and sorrow my home’s in your arms.”_   
_(In joy and sorrow – HIM)_

 

 

Michael blinked a few times to get the tiredness out of his eyes.

In the cold dawn light the basement looked unreal: big boxes were piled precariously, an army of ants carried crumble of cheese chips to their underground home. A few steps away from the bed a bloodstain broke the faded homogeneity of the linoleum.

The young man took a deep breath. He tasted something awful in the back of his mouth, his lips felt glued together. He ran a hand down his face, trying to ignore the form at the edge of his vision.

Lucifer was watching him; his eyes were bright with fever, an unbelievably soft smile curved his lips. He hadn’t done anything else since Michael had pulled away from their hug, but the eldest couldn’t hold his gaze: doing it would acknowledge that it was over, that he had failed. And that Lucifer was fine with it.

He had held that sweaty and trembling body close the entire night; his lips to the hot skin, his fingers tangled in the dirty and messy hair, deluding himself that the fever would go down, or death would turn into something acceptable.

Nobody had answered his prayers.

Michael clenched his fists, a familiar rage was twisting his stomach and constricting his throat; it felt like dying embers, it tasted like ashes and blood. He had thought he hated Lucifer after the fall, but he had been wrong: feelings reside under the skin, inside the flesh.

Truth was this betrayal burned more than the first. Every breath of his was an insult, when it was counterbalanced by Lucifer’s weak sighs; the heart beating inside his chest– alive, whole, strong– was nothing more than a cruel reminder of how few beats his brother still had. And his very hands, those hands that had touched Lucifer, held him, cradled him… those hands would soon kill him.

The way it had been written.

But maybe, if he had kept his eyes down and his heart strong, if he were inflexible, Lucifer would be saved. _He is not going to die if I don’t forgive him. He would not leave me, while I am angry with him._

Michael raised his face, a weak smile arching his lips: Lucifer would die anyway, and his own stubbornness, his persistence would just hurt him more.

_But I am not going to let you die alone. I am not going to turn my back on you ever again._

“Do you remember the first time you fell ill?” he whispered intertwining his fingers with those of his brother’s. “You thought it was the plague or something just as lethal. You did not want me to leave you.”

Lucifer tightened his hold, the tenderness in his eyes leaving room to a quiet determination. Michael knew that look well: Lucifer had taken a decision and nothing would make him change his mind.

“This time I won’t get better, Michael,” the younger replied. “But you must promise me that you will go on. Even alone.”

Michael nodded, because Lucifer was weak and pale and wouldn’t be alert much longer; he nodded because he hadn’t been able to protect his brother, but giving him a serene death was still in his power. He nodded because he was a liar and a coward. And because a way to save Lucifer existed. Overcome with weariness, he had been ready to die with his brother because he didn’t care. Not for real. In Heaven like in Hell, as an angel, a man or a corpse, Michael wanted nothing more than staying with Lucifer.

Now things had changed: he’d break the promise only if forced to.

“When the moment comes, I will do what I have to.”

He lifted his brother’s hand and brought it to his lips. Lucifer’s skin was warm, clammy, but it tasted like home. Michael closed his eyes and held him close. And with that fever-burning face against his chest, he found the strength to leave, to go back to the past.

He felt the desert sand swirl around his feet and go down his throat, red and dry, burnt by a sun that looked huge; against his back there wasn’t the damp wall of a suburb house, but the grey stone of Solomon’s palace.

The great king was there, before him. More imposing than the western soldier Michael was wearing, he was dropping scarlet blood on a mirror, while demons knelt at his feet; the slaves that would build God’s temple. They were strong, fast, tireless, completely subjugated to the will of their master.

“The _shedim_ are under my power,” Solomon told him without even turning around. “You have been here for seven years, Michael, and none of them has ever eluded my control.”

“The Lord wants you protected, Solomon. And He made sure you were by putting the most lethal of his Swords at your disposal.” He crossed his arms on his chest; his lips drew the most unreadable smile. “It would not be wise to refuse such a gift.”

“You misunderstood me, my friend,” Solomon replied. “You have always been the best of my guests. Nobody has ever seen you touch anything, be it food, beverage or servant; your eyes don’t linger on anything, your tongue moves only if questioned.” He turned towards Michael, and his eyes did linger; on the golden and crimson garments he begged him to wear; on the flaxen, neck-long hair; on the red lips and on eyes that were clear like the Rhine and as cold as its waters. On the body of the Germanic young man. “Please, follow me. There is something I want to show you.”

Michael did as he was asked to.

Through covered terraces and night-smelling gardens, they arrived to the king’s private chambers. They had no door, just heavy curtains of silk and damask that rustled when Michael lifted them. The inside was poorly lit by a hearth casting crimson shadows. They looked like blood. Or maybe Michael thought of blood because its oppressive smell permeated the air.

He heard himself called by a name unknown to men and started to turn around, but his legs didn’t hold him. His back and shoulders screamed – his wings, they ripped off his wings!

More conscious of this body than he had ever been, Michael lifted his head: he had to warn Solomon, tell him to run. He couldn’t protect him, he couldn’t…

The king was smiling.

From his fingers, blood dropped within a circle of sulfur and red resin, joining the crusted one of a ram hung by its legs and left to die. Flowers with dark petals floated on that black sea.

“What have you done?” Michael demanded to know. He was furious, but his voice sounded weak to his own ears.

Solomon’s smile widened. “You swagger through my palace as if you were my equal. And the body you chose… to tempt me, to seduce me!” He shook his head, his fingers clenched in a fist. “Undress, angel: we will see what will be of your arrogance when I will have you subdued.”

Michael felt his heart turn to ice. Would he obey like the demons? Would he let himself be touched and taken and… “No,” he answered, finding himself the only master of this body. The relief left him dizzy even though he was on his knees.

Solomon nodded, his lips curving in a pleased grimace. “So the ritual will not bend you.” He stepped beyond the blood circle and, leaning towards Michael, he slapped the angel on his face.

Pain and anger clouded Michael’s vision; the taste of iron invaded his mouth. He growled. “Nothing will force me to obedience,” he replied in a hoarse whisper, “and nothing stops my hand when it is willing to hit. I will destroy you if you don’t give in now. I swear it.”

“You are human, Michael,” the king muttered brushing his fingers to the angel’s bloodstained lips. “You are weak, fragile and helpless. Just like I wanted you; just like you will stay until I decide otherwise.”

Michael gripped Solomon’s wrist so tight he could feel the bones creaking under his fingers. “I’m not helpless, not even in this state.”

The king smiled, albeit the pain clouding his gaze. “Can you fight all my watchmen, Michael? Do you want them to hold you back?” He jerked himself free, his face deformed by lust. “Do you want witnesses to your dishonor?”

“You would violate one of God’s children?”

“In spite of all your power, you are nothing more than a servant. You are nothing.”

He curled his fingers in Michael’s hair and bent the angel’s head backwards, showing his neck. Michael trembled. In rage and disgust. In terror.

He had heard screams coming from this room; the screams of servants and cup-bearers, ministers and soldiers, even the king’s many wives. He had heard them and ignored them: it wasn’t his place to judge. But he wouldn’t allow his voice to join theirs. Ever.

He leaned towards that sadistic and cruel man, the man he despised, and touched his face. He pulled Solomon towards himself, eyes low and heart thundering.

He felt the king’s arousal, his thick breath. “Will you obey? Will you obey me, Michael?”

The angel took the short jeweled knife he kept at his belt, a gift from Solomon himself. The handle was cold and Michael wondered if the blade sinking into the king’s guts – _forgive me Father, forgive me Father_ – was just as cold. Then blood wet his hands, clammy and warm. Would his own be like that, when the guards would find him?

“If I die, you will stay like this,” Solomon wheezed. “They will find you and you will be arrested. And what do you think is the punishment for regicides?

Michael didn’t know and didn’t care. He just wanted to complete his task, if he still could. He sank the blade deeper, all the way to the hilt.

“Free me and I will heal you,” he promised. “Free me or this room will become your grave.”

Solomon’s eyes had lost all their light; his lips were pale, his body heavy. Michael gripped him by the neck and brought their faces close. “Free me,” he ordered again. “Now.”

The king did.

Grace blossomed in Michael’s chest and his heart pumped it into all his cells, his wings exploded from his back. He was free.

He laid his blood-stained hands on Solomon and gave him back his life. Because he had promised. Because his orders were to keep him alive. Then he stood up, throwing the man to the floor.

The king propped himself up on his elbows and crawled away. “You gave me your word,” he screamed. “You cannot touch me, the Lord would punish you.”

Michael looked down at him in disgust.

The circle of blood and the ram were swallowed by the flames, but it wasn’t enough: he needed to erase that spell from Earth. He gripped the king’s hair and forced him to stand.

“You had my sword and my friendship, you had God’s favor,” he whispered, “but it was not enough to you. Now you will lose everything: my protection, His favor, your genius.”

Michael let the fire blaze; he let it burn the king’s mind. Then he left the palace without turning back.

The spell had completely vanished along with Solomon’s wisdom, but something still lingered. In Michael’s memories.

Michael bit his lips. Desperation made his blood run thicker, he felt like choking. Solomon had been a great sorcerer, while Michael had neither such a power nor the ingredients: there was the risk of summoning something he wouldn’t stand a chance to control.

“Whatever you have in mind, do not do it.”

Lucifer’s voice tore him from his thoughts. Michael lifted his head and sank into his brother’s eyes: they were huge in his pale face. The fever gave them a new tenderness, as if Lucifer was seeing something beyond this world. Like a young martyr, like a saint.

Michael’s lips curved in a bitter smile. “I am just tired, Lucifer,” he muttered brushing his brother’s hot forehead. “I wasn’t thinking about anything.”

He freed Lucifer’s face from a lock of hair that looked bluish on his pale skin; then, forcing himself to swallow his guilt and every unnecessary memory, Michael leaned forward to kiss him.

Lucifer’s mouth was sweet, too sweet: like a rotten fruit, like a body close to death.

Michael shuddered and Lucifer tightened his hold, deluding himself that it was just the cold, that a way to get warm could still exist. Michael let him.

“Would you sing for me?” Lucifer asked long minutes later.

“I hope Bruce Springsteen is okay, I can’t remember many hymns.”

The younger nodded and, when Michael hummed _The River_ softly into his ear, he closed his eyes and smiled like he hadn’t for so long.

“ _We’d ride out of this valley down to where the fields were green,_ ” Michael sang, his voice breaking. “ _We’d go down to the river, and into the river we’d dive_.”

Against his shoulder, Lucifer started coughing. A wet, desperate sound, like he was choking. The eldest shifted to give him room to breathe, but the other was already gasping, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. Michael dried them with gentle fingers, while sliding a hand around his brother’s waist.

“Calm down,” he said drawing circles on the sweaty back. “Breathe with me. In and out, like this.”

Lucifer kept coughing, until the cough turned into gagging and he emptied his stomach on the old linoleum. “Breathe with me,” he sarcastically repeated, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “It’s easy to say, when you aren’t about to throw up your lungs.”

“You can’t imagine what I would give to switch places with you,” Michael muttered without thinking.

Lucifer paled, but managed a smile. “Would you resume singing, please?”

“There is no need to go on like this.”

His brother stared at him without understanding and Michael carried on: “It will get worse. And you don’t have to stay, not for me. We have a whole pack of codeine, if you want…”

He couldn’t continue, but he didn’t need to.

“I have no intention to rush goodbyes,” Lucifer replied laying his head on Michael’s shoulder. “As long as you have nothing else to do.” He kept silent for a long moment, then took his brother’s hand in his. When he resumed talking, his voice trembled with a new emotion. An emotion Michael recognized as fear. “Truth is I don’t think we will see each other again,” Lucifer confessed, “and I want to be with you until the very end.”

Michael nodded, but didn’t say anything. Words were impossible. He canted his head to the side, till it touched his brother’s hair, and closed his eyes breathing the pungent smell of fever and sweat. The body against his was getting heavier, Lucifer drifting to sleep again. Michael let him go to that place where every pain disappeared, envying him.

The room was spinning around them. Soft whispers tickled his ear, his limbs were getting numb. When the black behind his lids became darker, Michael tried to pry them open, but couldn’t.

Lucifer’s warmth seeped through their clothes, through his flesh; it seemed to push its way to his conscience. In that mortal body, in that prison that was erasing memories one by one, something still lingered: sensations treasured in the soul, feeble breaths of grace.

Michael found the strength to lift a hand heavier than lead to touch his brother. And while he lost his struggle against sleep, he mused how Lucifer still represented all he’d ever been: a stubborn feeling of home.

He awoke one hour or one hundred later, with his heart hammering in his chest. He was disoriented; he couldn’t tell where he was. He made to get up, but a hot body trapped him to the wall.

_Lucifer… Lucifer was bitten, but he is alive, he is still alive. He is so hot, he cannot be dead. He is my brother, he cannot be dead!_

It seemed the younger had shifted in his sleep. He had his eyes closed; his face was buried in the fabric of Michael’s jeans, his legs dangling from the bed. Michael thought his chest wasn’t moving. He touched his brother’s hair with a trembling hand.

“Please,” he begged with the same desperate faith with which he’d once addressed their Father.

Lucifer’s forehead was burning, like the breath that caressed his wrist when he touched it. Michael took his shirt and wetted it with the water from the bottle. His brother was on his last legs. His lips were dry and cracked, his face beaded with perspiration, his hair glued to his skin. Michael brushed it away, and felt it heavy. Everything felt heavy in the basement: air and limbs, heart and regrets.

“I know I wasn’t the best brother,” Michael muttered, wiping the younger’s flushed face. “And I know a part of you will always hate me. I always believed this would be another chance, and maybe it will. I need to believe it.”

He felt his lips arc in a desperate smile, the smile of a man who had nothing more than faith to hold on to. Lucifer barely lifted his eyelids, showing two patches of sky flooded by sunlight. They were fever-burning eyes, hollow and clear like a summer afternoon. Those of the only creature Michael had loved more than his Father.

Michael brought his fingers to his lips, and then moved them to his brother’s mouth. A quick and light fluttering greeted them, like that of a butterfly. Smothering it was just as easy. He only had to take the head in his hands and jerk it to the side.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to thank AryYuna and Omaano, respectively the translater and the beta of this ginormous fic: I don't know what would I've done without you two, beautiful ladies ♥  
> I hope you guys like it. Just let me know ^^


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